


To Devour a Darkling

by moneill0775, Thayne (moneill0775)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Revolution, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assassin's Creed III, Assassin's Creed: Rogue, Assassins vs. Templars, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Language, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Father/Son Incest, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gen, Hand Jobs, Language Kink, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moneill0775/pseuds/moneill0775, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moneill0775/pseuds/Thayne
Summary: Connor stood alone on a dock in Boston’s harbor, watching the dark hull of the Templar’s Morrigan emerge from the early morning mirk, carrying the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite and a Black Cross to the shores of the American Revolution...(A version of Assassin's Creed III that is canon divergent on when and how the Kenway boys find church, and with whom they find him with...)
Relationships: Haytham Kenway/Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor, Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway/Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor /William de Saint-Prix, Shay Cormac/William de Saint-Prix
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter One

Connor stood alone on a dock in Boston’s harbor, watching the dark hull of the Templar’s _Morrigan_ emerge from the early morning mirk. It pierced the fog with its prow, looking to Connor like how a Templar believed themselves to be: that which brought the light in the darkness. It was exactly how they perceived the world to be, a darkness, and they were the beacon of light that shone through and guided. Assassins worked in the dark to serve the light, and Connor often thought of the Templars as the opposite. They worked in the light to serve the dark, as Connor often found them in public places. Places of power, such as Pitcairn and Lee, commanders in the army, publicly present and discussed without needing to be talked about in back alleys.

As the dock workers started to come in to begin their mornings by setting up the docks for mooring, Connor moved way. The fog might have hidden him well enough, but with his father Haytham Kenway on board the _Morrigan_ , not even adverse weather could hide Connor for very long. The Master Assassin turned his back on the ocean, on the incoming ship, the Templars, the darkness. He walked purposefully past the shipyards to lose himself in the city crowds of greater Boston. Connor was never truly lost, not when he was on the rooftops anyways.

The tails of his robes flicked up just so in the slight breeze that often came to the North in early autumn. He pushed past wandering tradesmen and merchants, and the occasional Patriot patrolling the streets. Connor did not even turn when another man started walking to the right and just behind him. A new Assassin, sent by the French Brotherhood, new and young, but ready to fight for the Revolution. Young was relative, as Connor knew, seeing as he was only twenty-two years compared to the Frenchman’s eighteen. Young in an Assassin’s terms often had Connor thinking of men who were middle-aged, in their forties at the latest. That was young. Now, Achilles was old, by Brotherhood and societal standards, but in both the Brotherhood and civilization, one ought to fear their elders. The elders were to be respected and feared when many often died young.

The Frenchman, William de Saint-Prix, was of the French nobility, and some of the others that Connor had recruited for the American Brotherhood were wary of him, but Connor liked him well enough. Liam, as he had been nicknamed by Connor, wore dark robes that day, paired with a dark tricorn hat with gold trim, in contrast to the Master Assassin’s white and blue robes. In the shadows, though, it mattered not.

“They will know we were here,” Liam said quietly, looking over his shoulder in emphasis.

Connor did not speak for a moment as they headed down an alley. They stopped in the shadows of the buildings. Connor leaned against the brick of one, crossing his arms over his chest as he sighed.

“My father always seems to know where I am, Liam,” the half blood said. “I am not even sure it matters how far away I appear to be.”

Liam grunted a bit as he stood across from Connor, watching him carefully. They stayed like that for a moment, glancing up at every shadow that passed by. Who was watching them? Listening as they passed?

“What were you able to find out?” Connor finally managed to ask, his throat feeling dry just from asking about his father.

Liam did not look at him as he responded. “The _Morrigan_ carries the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite…and it is rumored a Black Cross as well.”

Connor looked at him sharply. A Black Cross of the Templars, a sort of secret police within the organization that kept everyone in line. They were terrifying and amazing in the same breath, and even the Inner Council of the Templar Order knew to be afraid of them. He had never heard of one coming to the colonies, but he was almost certain that this Black Cross was not here to keep an eye on Grand Master Haytham. Rather, Connor perceived him to be coming to America for the rest of the Templars that called the Colonial Rite theirs.

He found himself smirking. Was this all his doing? He knew it was. They were scattering like rats when the cat came out to hunt in the barn.

“A Black Cross? Here?” Connor found himself saying, almost incredulously. “For what purpose?”

“I have been told from my mentors in France that they are used as enforcers within the Templar Order. Of what other use they have, I have been told it depends on what the need of the order is at the time.”

“The need of the order, then. And what might that need be now, hmm?”

“I suppose that the need now would be to hunt the Brotherhood. You are causing them great grief, Connor, are you not?”

“We are causing them grief, Liam,” Connor said, flashing him a grin from beneath his good. “And will continue to do so.”

Liam sighed, but did not seem to be frustrated with that. Indeed, he flicked out his hidden blade and stared at it for a long moment before Connor patted his shoulder and urged him to follow as he moved from the alley to move back into the hustle of the of a main street. He did not need to look back to know that Liam was following behind him. He hurried along, sidestepping a duo of higher-class women as they tittered with one another about the latest gossip that had reached Boston.

It was too easy to climb onto the roof of a nearby inn, giving Liam a hand in clambering up the last few paces. They were very nonchalant in moving from rooftop to rooftop. They were in no hurry, not this time. The Templars would find them, just as they always found one another in the end. It was to be that way until the end of time.

It was on a church steeple that the Assassins made their roost while waiting for the Templars. William waited by the bell of the white church, while Connor preferred a higher perch, by the cross mounted on the bell’s housing. He gripped the iron tightly in his gloved hand, stabilizing himself on the sharp angles of the roofing. He watched the crowds below and was thankful that it was not a Sunday. Having to listen to groups of churchgoers talking…he shuddered. It did his head in just thinking about it.

“What are we waiting for, Connor?” William asked, peaking his head out from the bell tower. “Should we not be waiting near the docks to end the Templars when they moor their ship?”

The Master Assassin sighed quietly. He knew William was right, but he also knew that there were other ways to further uproot the Rite’s hold on America. There were more Templar leaders beneath the Grand Master, more than just Charles Lee, as Connor well knew. It was far reaching and starting to become deeply ingrained in American soil, and to prevent it further, ripping it from the root was necessary. To get rid of Haytham, they would replace him. To relieve Haytham of all his subordinates would leave the European sects of the Rite scrambling to find replacements.

Haytham, though, Haytham would never be panicked. He had never seen his father in any sort of state of alarm. He was steadfast, unbreakable, unshakeable. Even when they had parted ways after they had lost Benjamin Church those months ago. He could only think that the Grand Master was bringing the Black Cross in the hunt for Church, to try and pick up where they had left off. Connor would allow it to go so far, as it aligned with his own goals.

“No, we wait,” Connor heard himself say. He let himself slide down the slope a bit further, catching his fingertips on the edge to bring himself into the bell tower with Liam. “We wait to see if they seek us out in the search for Benjamin Church?”

“Are we to meet them in the church as your father dropped in on you last time you met?”

“Does everyone know about that?”

“About how ungraceful you were about going into an unknown place with all the noise of a bull, then yes, almost everyone knows, Connor.”

Connor let out a short laugh. “Admittedly, it was not one of my finest moments, but in my defense…”

Liam nudged his shoulder with a small smile. “Defense nothing, Connor. There is no defense for not taking care in a new environment. Even if it was left without guards.”

The two Assassins smiled at one another before turning to watch the market square just beyond the church grow fat with patrons seeking out goods. There were vegetable stalls, stalls for handmade goods like baskets and woven blankets and clothes, and, had there not been a general store where one could buy arms, Connor was sure that there would be a place to buy guns in a market booth, too. His own guns were partially given to him by Achilles, the other part bought by himself for himself. As if to make sure it was still there, Connor fingered his flintlock pistol at his side, running his thumb over the filigree etched into the iron.

“Who are we looking for?” William asked offhandedly.

“We are waiting for the Templars to get off their ship so that we might follow them,” Connor responded.

“We are waiting so far away?”

“My father has the Eagle Vision that I have, and we are not so inconspicuous as to be able to stand on or near the docks without being detected with ease. We might work in the shadows, but even we cannot escape that, William.”

“You have told me of this ‘ Eagle Vision,’ but what is it truly?”

“I do not know,” Connor said, closing his eyes for a moment before he flicked them open. They were a hazy gray now, completely colored through, like that of a blind man. He was far from blind this way, though.

He saw the world through the eyes of Á:kwe’ks, the eagle, and through the eagle, his vision was increased tenfold. He was able to see enemies, allies, targets, and victims. Blue was for his friends and family, the Patriots who fought for their new nation. The soldiers of Valley Forge were bright, beating blues, like the ocean waves that pushed against his Aquila. Red was for the loyalists, the British redcoats, and enemies alike. Red like the blood he spilt in the name of the Creed. Sometimes, there was one who was a bit of both colors, for those who could go either way, for those who were out for themselves, out for their own cause. Connor could respect that, but it was a bit harder to trust them. Thoughts would run through his mind when he was interacting with them, like what were they after? Could he trust them in purchases, with being an effective lookout for his marks? Connor’s trust in them was earned.

The third color that Connor had always seen was black. He sometimes called it “the blackening” when someone was not completely gone yet. He did not see it as often as the other colors unless he was on a battlefield. Then, sometimes the black outnumbered both the red and the blue. Blue tinged, speckled by black brought grief. It hurt him when he looked at Achilles, his mentor. There seemed to be more dark splotches every time Connor was with him. The edges of his blue were tinged with a dark gray, turning darker. Black meant death, whether one was dead or dying. Red tinged by black, black coming over a red like a wave as the end came for them. It was sometimes the only modicum of happiness that the half-blooded Kanienʼkehá꞉ka found.

The colors below now were most blue, with tinges of red here and there, for their loyalist tendencies. Some were a mixture of both, often the merchants who sided heavily with their ideals based upon greed, money. The all holy coin was all that mattered to them, and Connor knew, having been swindled out of a good amount of his money on some bad days. He had since learned but his own former stupidity still stung some days.

At the quiet throat clearing of the Frenchman, Connor’s eyes changed back to the normal brown. He shook his head for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a sigh. The true sight wavered for a moment before it came back to him in full in the reality.

“Do you see them?” Liam asked carefully.

“No, not yet,” Connor replied. He licked his lips before he continued. “Have you heard the name of the Black Cross then? Do we know who we are dealing with?” 

“Their names are often hard to come by.” 

“That does not mean we do not know the name. So, have you heard or no?”

“I do not need to have heard to know who is coming, Connor.”

“So, you do know the name.”

“It matters not now. All we need to know is that he is coming, and his presence will be seen, and felt, soon enough.”

Connor grunted softly and rubbed a hand on his jaw. William knew something, something that he was unwilling to share. He knew this Black Cross, perhaps had met him in France before coming here for join the American Brotherhood and fight for the Revolution. Still, any information was information worth having, that much Connor knew.

“He is coming, Liam. There is no doubt of that,” Connor said. “Now the only question is how we will handle him.”

William laughed a bit, covering his mouth with a hand to stifle the noise. Connor arched a brow beneath his hood asked, “What is so funny?”

“There is no handling him, Connor.” When Liam spoke, he sounded very far off. Like he was remembering a long last time, desperate to go back to that time. Back to France, then.

“And, you would know then, William?”

“All too well, my friend.”

Connor felt himself straighten a bit at being called Liam’s friend. He did not have many friends in his life. There was no need for them. The Creed was all he needed. Yet, it made his heart feel a little bit lighter to hear the other Assassin considered him to be a friend. He nodded a bit at William and looked back down. He stopped then, one hand clenched tight around his pistol.

Haytham Kenway was watching him. From a spot in the middle of the marketplace, he stood there wearing his traditional cape and tricorn. His hair was salt and pepper, pulled back with a red ribbon. Next to him was someone that Connor had not seen before, but he felt like an echo of something bygone all the same. His hair was black ink, shot through with few strands of grey. His clothes were as black as his hair, trimmed in red, on his finger the same Templar ring that every member of the Order received. He, too, wore a cloak, and though he could not see it, he was sure the Templar Cross was on it just like Haytham’s own.

William breathed out a sigh. “So, that is your father then?”

Connor swallowed quietly. “Yes.”

“Then, you look just like him, I must say,” Liam spoke quietly. “Like him with hints of your mother.”

Connor nodded. “I know.”

The Frenchman moved closer to him and said lowly, “We must leave. They have seen us.”

“Yes, they have. Is that the Black Cross?”

“Yes.”

“You know him.” 

“Yes.”

“Who is he?”

William seemed to hold his breath. He stared at the second man with that same far off look as before. The second man stood tall, with the stock of a flintlock rifle peeking over his shoulder, and William knew it was him. Flashes of memories came unbidden to him, a dark room with candlelight and a heavy body covering his. It was as if he was there again, in that bed, feeling the silks at his back. He shook himself. That was a long time ago. And that was a lie.

Connor nudged Liam’s shoulder lightly, trying to regain his attention. “Come back to me, William.”

He cleared his throat and nodded at the Master Assassin. “Forgive me. My mind tends to travel.”

“I have noticed. The Black Cross’s name?”

“His name is Shay. Shay Patrick Cormac.”


	2. Chapter Two

Connor sat at a table in a tucked away corner of a seedy tavern and stared into his water with bated breath. There was something gray and fuzzy floating just inside the lip of his drink, and Connor had already dipped his fingers in once to try and get it out. No dice on that count. He hummed and pushed away the cup, tapping long, calloused fingers on the wood as he waited for William to come back with his own drink. He came to the table with ease and a beer mug. Connor arched a brow curiously at his choice of drink.

Liam snorted. “Your wine here is swill, my friend.”

Connor cracked a grin. “I would not know, Liam. I have only ever had one glass of wine, and that was enough for me.”

The Frenchman nodded. “Swill, then.”

“And the beer instead, Liam? What of that?”

“Not much better, but to sit in a tavern, in a corner, without having some kind of drink in hand. It would be suspicious, no?”

Connor shrugged. “I have never really cared to notice. Is it suspicious then?”

“Very. They will think we are plotting something.”

“We are.”

“No one else needs to know that.”

William started laughing a bit, biting his bottom lip as he quieted. He glanced around, nodding a bit at the only other occupied table in the tavern as he spoke. “We are only darklings when we choose to be, Connor. Now is not that time, from what I have noticed. Unless you consider getting drunk in the back of a tavern to be something that a darkling would do, my friend.”

“At this moment, yes, that is exactly what a darkling, an Assassin, would do,” Connor said, pushing the water away even further. “But, I do not like the thought of being drunk. Even the thought is making my stomach start to revolt.”

“You do not have the stomach for the tavern’s delights then?”

“This tavern specifically, no,” Connor said, looking around warily. “Not for any others either, but this tavern us a definite no. I am concerned that if I got drunk here, I would never make it home.”

“Even a drunk Assassin is still a threat, Connor,” Liam said confidently. “And most people will avoid a Native if they can.”

Connor grimaced, but knew that Liam was not speaking out of a place of meanness, but a place of fact. Not many would mess with a Native, one of the Kanienʼkehá꞉ka, and yet many would. As Ratonhnhaké:ton, he had known those that would kill one of his own, and those that would not for fear of repercussions. Often, those were the same people. When faced with an unarmed half-breed, they had been eager to prove that they were carrying the big stick. Now that he had grown and was rarely without his tomahawk and his hidden blade, it was harder to find more willing opponents. Charles Lee had taken advantage of a young boy, but he was rightfully cautious of the Assassin that Connor had become under the watchful eye of Achilles.

That took nothing from the color of his skin.

Liam reached out, rapping on the table with his knuckles to regain the Master Assassin’s attention. Connor seemed to inwardly shake himself before he glanced up at Liam.

“Sorry.”

“No reason to be. The mind will wander as needed.”

Connor laughed a bit. “Not many would say that.”

“Assassins are not many.”

William watched him closely. Under the darkness of the hood, he could see a glint of teeth from Connor. It had always seemed that only other Assassins could truly see the emotions of another under the hood that they all shared. But that was the point wasn’t it? You were not meant to be seen by the outside world. You were part of the Brotherhood, no longer the society. You protected the people, but you were not one of them. As such, your emotions were best left to the people you looked out for. Let them feel fear and hatred and love and mourn their dead for all their days. That was what Liam had always been taught, but as he had been tasked with leaving France, he had seen the cracks in his Mentors, the grief they showed for the death of Charles Dorian. 

Charles. Liam’s eyes narrowed and he took a swallow of his beer, trying to distract himself. It would weigh on him for an eternity.

Connor sighed and said quietly, “Perhaps we can change that.”

“Not too many, my friend,” Liam said. “The whole of the Revolution does not need to be Assassins for us to win.”

The other man grinned a bit, looking at him more fully. “No, Liam. The Revolution only needs you and me.”

They laughed a little bit. Liam shrugged and said, “I do not doubt that my friend. All Commander Washington and Lafayette need is two willing Assassins and a hidden blade to make the necessary decisions.”

“They will make the right call.” 

“And what will that be?”

“Whatever it takes to win.”

“Whatever it takes, eh? Somehow, I doubt that Connor. Good men do not kill easily.”

“Good men know when they have no choice but to make the call to have lives ended. Good men started this Revolution, knowing what they were getting into, for the good of creating a country free from oppression by the British.”

Liam grunted a bit, drinking more of his beer. “As you say.”

“Do you not believe me?” Connor asked, arching a brow.

“All I am saying is that we will have to see.”

Connor nodded once, staring at his cup of water again. He was half tempted to tip the damn thing over. It was going to bother him knowing that his cup had something floating in it. He could not drink it, but he was not about to go and ask for another one. He had the feeling that the same thing would have happened, and this time it would be more than one fuzzy gray fluff floating in the water.

He should not have glanced up when he heard the door to the tavern open. He did.

Haytham Kenway and Shay Cormac stood just inside the door. The Black Cross leaned over and murmured something in the Grand Master’s ear as he glanced around the small tavern. Connor clenched his hands on top of the table, and noticed Liam had frozen up a bit in his seat. He could almost see the same thing running through Liam’s mind, the notion of ending it here and now. His wrist brace seemed to itch, ready to draw the blade and wet it with blood.

The Assassins stared at one another. Liam glanced at the Templars and then back at Connor, almost in askance. Connor shook his head almost imperceptibly. He mouthed to him, _Hide in plain sight, and do not compromise the Brotherhood._ Nothing too open. They were not martyrs, nor were they mercenaries, and Connor was hoping not to be outlaws. To kill two Templars in the presence of innocents, especially if they were well known amongst the people, the reemergence of the Colonial Brotherhood would be for not.

Connor was not stupid. He knew that his father and Shay were well aware of their presence at the tavern. Now, they were just waiting to see who would approach who first. Liam’s hand was tight around his beer, his knuckles white, his eyes down and focusing on the wood grain in the table. He traced it with his free hand idly, a wisp of dark hair coming down in front of his eyes.

“Connor.”

Haytham’s voice was a hidden blade in itself. It was steel and blood and uncompromising. A touch of arrogance and ready self-assurance was doubly present this time, like he thought himself so clever as to find the Assassins who were already looking for him. Connor felt rather than heard the slight strain of his leather gloves as he clenched his hands tighter. Haytham’s arrogance threw him off every time.

Connor licked his lips and swallowed, trying to wet his suddenly dry throat. “Father.”

Haytham rested a hand on Connor’s shoulder and squeezed slightly. His son stiffened a bit, looking up at him. Haytham stood just there, by his shoulder, and his companion stood more so to the front of the table, eying Connor with what he perceived to be mild curiosity and a hint of contempt.

“May we sit?” No sooner had the words left Haytham’s mouth before he and Shay Cormac were sitting down. Connor and William looked at each other for a moment before they glanced back at the Templars who had decided to make themselves at home at their tables. What choice did they have, in all honesty? If they went to leave, they might make a scene, and a bigger scene of they drew their hidden blades now to finish it.

“Looks to me like you are already sitting,” William said neutrally. He rested his chin on his right hand, his elbow digging hard into the table.

“Did you find a new recruit then, Connor?” Haytham asked, staring at the Frenchman as he spoke.

“A few, actually,” Connor said in a biting tone. Liam watched him carefully, eyes flicking between the Master Assassin and the Grand Master Templar.

Haytham hummed, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “Perhaps they will not fall as easily as you, but for now, they live.”

Connor was practically fuming beneath his hood, as Liam could see. He looked ready to lose his temper on the man he called his father. A dragon, lurking beneath his human skin, wanting and willing to engulf Haytham Kenway in a ball of fire. Then, it was gone. A mask was in place. Stern and stoic and firmly held there, like new, uncracked porcelain. It was not see through to the untrained eye, but if Liam had to guess, all four of them sitting at this table could easily see that Connor was still boiling beneath the surface.

“What do you want, father?”

“Right to the point, are we?”

“You always want something, father, from what I can remember of our brief journey together.”

Haytham did not disagree. “This time it is something that we both want.”

Connor looked up at his father sharply. “Church? Have you found him?”

“We are going to find him.” It was Shay who spoke up this time.

“That is why you are here, isn’t it?” Connor asked, though they all knew it was not really a question that needed answering. “To ensure it gets done.”

Shay looked at him now. His beard was only a couple days growth, but it seemed to suit him. A scar on his face gave him a gruff look when coupled with the beard, and his voice only added to it. William was still now, almost frozen in his chair. He had turned his head further away from the dim light coming through the windows, the shadow of his hood hiding most of his face now.

“It would have gotten done, with or without me here,” Shay said in return. “I merely said that should Haytham have want of my services that I would be most obliged to accompany him.”

“I ask him to come to help us find Benjamin Church,” Haytham added unnecessarily after a moment.

“There is an ‘us’ then, Father? I do not think so.”

“I would have to disagree, Connor. The ‘us’ will continue as I see necessary, and for now, it will be necessary until Church is done away with.”

“Who are you to be the leader and make the decisions?”

“He is the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite, and your father, for that matter,” Shay said, leaning forward a bit to tap his fingers on the table forcefully.

“My father he may be, but what part did he play in my upbringing?”

William stood a bit and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Enough. A pissing contest will not help you now. Whatever happened, happened, now it is time to move on.”

“An Assassin with sense then,” Haytham said, a bit quieter as he looked more closely at William. “My son has sense sometimes. He can sometimes see understanding, but it takes work with him.”

Haytham stopped for a moment, as if choosing his next words carefully. “You are not a recruit from the Thirteen Colonies, are you?”

William smiled, teeth sharp and glinting a bit as he looked directly at the Grand Master. “My accent is too noticeable, no? Perhaps I came with Lafayette and his troops to help with the war for the new America.”

“Perhaps not.”

William let out a half scoff, half laugh. “Perhaps not. Why does it matter from where I came, Haytham Kenway?”

“I suppose it does not, but I am always interested in where people are coming from and where they are going.”

Liam shook his head. “No, you do not.”

“No, I don’t. Not unless it interests or concerns me, and this will, if we are to be companions on this little adventure.”

“Adventure, you say? It seems more like we are on our merry way to kill a rogue Templar. Sounds like a regular mission for an Assassin, not so much for another Templar.”

“He threatens us all,” Shay said, closing his eyes for a moment before he opened them again. “He undoes the work of the Rite, threatens our mission, threatens to expose the Assassins in doing so. The Colonies will remain just that, the Colonies, unless we can kill Church and take him from the British.”

“Is that why we should help you?” Liam asked, looking at Shay now. His hood hid most of his eyes, but he made sure that Shay could feel his gaze.

“With Church gone, we can get back to creating the new America,” Haytham said. He turned to look at Connor, and Connor looked back steadily.

“Do you have any leads, Father?”

“Yes, a couple. We should be able to follow them shortly.”

“Do any of them lead directly from Boston to somewhere?”

“Our last contact was in Valley Forge, saw him fighting with the redcoats in a small scuffle just outside of Philadelphia.”

“How many contacts do you have? Surely more than just this one contact would have seen him somewhere. A trail of spies who know the roads he is taking?”

“We had plenty of contacts until someone started offing them one by one. Now, we are almost blind here.”

Connor arched a brow and stared at Haytham. They watched each other, their eyes narrowing. It was as if they were waging a war right there in between them, and Shay and Liam were just the spectators. Connor looked away first, shaking his head slightly as he let out a heavy breath. He looked at Liam and tilted his head a bit in askance, silently questioning whether they should really be doing this, considering this. To work with Templars once again, Achilles would have his head, and for involving the Frenchman in this, Achilles would have his soul, too, if he could.

Connor sighed and looked up at the ceiling, looking for some sort of guidance from the Creator, the Colonists’ God, from anyone. He got a big fat nothing, so he looked back to his father, and he nodded.

“We will look for Church.”


	3. Chapter Three

“You met him, didn’t you? Before coming here?”

The “him” was known, the name not needing to be spoken between the two of them. Though Connor had broached the subject little that day, he knew that it still set Liam off. The French Assassin looked at him from across the small fire they had made. The forest was cold that night, but the winds were nothing. The soft light of the flames highlighted William’s high cheekbones and five o’clock shadow. There was more of a shroud of sadness and longing there on his face then there had been earlier today. He seemed to take a moment before he let out a soft, huffing laugh.

“I wish I hadn’t.”

“But you did.”

“Yes.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Yes and no.”

Connor grunted and rested his arms over his raised knees, clicking his tongue once as he rubbed the tips of his thumb and middle finger together. He found himself watching the fire in deep contemplation, his mind wandering to the Templars who were currently scouring the woods for their supper. They had insisted that they stay close, and for the Assassins, that meant as far from town as possible. They were darklings, yes, and that meant the shadows, not the inns in the center of town. Their Templar companions had seemingly obliged their insistence to stay in the shadows of the trees, but for Connor’s own thoughts, he had assumed that Haytham was fine with it simply because of the time with his mother Ziio.

As for the Black Cross, Connor had yet to form any sort of opinions on Shay Cormac. He seemed a quiet man, but one who preferred action to word. His words were few, but Connor supposed that it countered Haytham quite nicely. Haytham was all words, both honeyed and barbed, falsely humble and proudly arrogant. All words in a smooth British accent that Connor sometimes wondered if it had been his mother’s undoing.

A thought ran through Connor’s mind, unbidden and unwanted. What if Shay’s voice had brought William down in turn?

He shook his head, unwilling to think that. Unwilling for now.

“However, it does not matter anymore.”

“It doesn’t?”

“It can’t matter. All that matters is Church, and in the process, bringing about the end of the Colonial Rite.”

“Do you think we can do that right under Haytham’s nose?”

“I had started before, when he was still here, sometimes with his help. And I continued after he had left to bring back the Black Cross.”

“So, I had noticed, son.”

Connor could not help but smirk and lift his head to look at his father. His hood was off, his braid hanging close to his temple. His father’s tricorn hat shadowed part of his face, and in one of his hands he gripped the legs of two hares, growing thin with the early autumn. Shay was hardly much better, holding what looked to be a fledging turkey with little meat on its bones. Still, for the four of them, it would be a fine enough dinner for the night, but little else. Perhaps, if they saved some, maybe some jerky for tomorrow morning’s ride would be available.

“Did you expect anything less, Father?”

“Not at all. You are committed to your ways…for now.”

Connor’s upper lip curled just slightly, but at the slight shake of William’s head for what felt like the umpteenth time that day, he kept his mouth shut for the sake of the tenuous peace that they had going.

Instead of swearing, he instead said, “You may hope to change me, Father, but we shall see which one of us will hold out longer.”

“You cannot teach an old dog, boy. I will not be swayed to your cause.”

Liam let out a soft whistling breath, running a hand through freshly shorn dark hair. If Connor remembered correctly, he had kept it that way since the day he had stepped off the ship and onto Colonial soil. Very few colonists kept their hair short, only those who were prisoners, slaves, or, at best, mourning someone dear to them. Which one had he been, Connor wondered.

“And yet, you are swayed to help me kill Church.”

“Church needs to be killed. The fact that we are after the same target only makes it easier for us to come together. I am not swayed to your side, boy. Far from it. We simply have the same aim.”

“As you say, _rokstén:ha_.”

As you say, old man.

William looked at him curiously at the new word leaving his lips. Haytham and Shay were both watching him with stoic expressions, though Connor could see a glimmer of curiosity and frustration in his face. He almost laughed. Almost.

“I imagine whatever you just called me was an insult.”

Connor shrugged and smiled. “That would depend on how you view it.”

A hare was thrown at his chest, a bit of blood getting onto his Assassin’s robes as he clutched the dead animal to him. Haytham eyed him for a moment before he took off his hat and brought himself to rest by the fire. He sat a bit close to Connor for his liking, but he said nothing. Shay followed suit, sitting between Haytham and Liam. The Frenchman looked distinctly irritated, but kept his mouth shut.

Connor gripped the hare bodily and started the process of skinning it for the meal. With a small scowl, Liam grabbed the turkey fledging and started to pluck out its feathers viciously. Thank the Creator the bird was already dead, else it might have felt like plucking out whole chunks of hair, Connor mused to himself. He put the fur aside and bodily speared the dead creature, before letting it rest over the fire.

“An inn would be easier,” Haytham said.

“Church could easily hear about us at an inn,” was the response Liam gave him.

It was very rare that Connor saw his father being shut down so quickly, and it only made Connor like William de Saint-Prix all the more for it.

The Grand Master, in turn, was quick to answer him. “And we, in turn, could easily learn more about him were we to stay at an inn.”

Connor clicked his tongue as William fell silent. They set about roasting the other skinned hair, and the defeathered turkey as Connor started to tear off strips of his hare to dry out for jerky. Liam carefully rotated the turkey, his eyes weighing heavily on the skin, making sure that it turned just the right shade of brown with each turn. If he could burn the turkey to spite the Templars, Connor was sure he would have. He was smirking just thinking about it. A sharp look from his father had him wiping his smug look right off his face. William would always swear in that moment that Connor looked like a scolded schoolboy turning away from his headmaster.

The four of them ate together quietly, none of them having anything to say. It appeared to be a silent agreement that there would be further discussion after their bellies had been filled. Everyone would be better behaved once their stomachs were not so empty. The hunger would be gone, at least. Their annoyance sated for the moment. Most assuredly, William knew, the irritation would return once talks of Church started again.

Shay was the one who started this time.

“Remind me where Church was last seen, Haytham?”

“Just outside Philadelphia, with a small regiment of redcoats. I was told that he was quartering his troops on the outskirts of Reading, where he has easy access to the thriving iron business there, as well as the supply lines heading to the Patriots.”

Connor watched his father. There was a heavy amount of contemplation on Haytham’s face, easier to see now that his hat was off. A fierce longing to stamp that goddamn tricorn into the ground was welling within him, that thing that reminded Connor of nothing but the few months of frustration surrounding Church. Always Church, always. He shook his head and squeezed his hand together a few times to distract himself.

Haytham sighed and ran a hand over his tied back hair. “Then, we should make way to Valley Forge, see where he left off. I have the feeling that he will try to stay close to Commander Washington, in order to better discover a way to destroy him.”

“He will not get near Washington if I have anything to say about it,” Connor said forcefully.

“Yes, yes,” Haytham said impatiently, dusting at his cloak where it was on the ground. “We all know of your love for Washington.”

“Yes, just as we all well know of your love for Charles Lee.”

The Grand Master seemed to stiffen up a bit at the mention of his colleague, but other than his voice, that was the only source of irritation that Connor could pick up on. The only source in that was at least. It looks could kill, Connor would be dead right there and then, his body probably smoking over the fire.

“Charles is not the priority right now. Church is.”

“Any Templar I can get my hands on is a priority.”

“Charles is not the problem.”

“He is much more of a problem than Church is.” Connor was raising his voice, standing up to gain some kind of ground over his father, if only for a moment.

Haytham stood in kind, keeping his voice level. “If you were anything more than a child, you could see that Charles is a catalyst for a better future.”

“ _Rokstén:ha_ , you know nothing.”

Liam stared at the two of them. They were toe to toe, chest to chest, glaring intently at each other, their breaths intermingling in the autumn air. It was tension, unresolved, unrelenting, pure and easy to see. From the corner of his eye, Liam could see Shay watching the two of them, his hands clenched on his crossed legs. He was uncomfortable with this. Liam let out a breath at the realization, and almost laughed.

He had never imagined that Shay Cormac would be uncomfortable with anything. He was calm, hard to read, a smooth façade. So close to Haytham. Liam gritted his teeth. Well, he could not say that Shay had not learned from the best. If anyone knew how to maintain themselves at all times, that would be the Grand Master himself. And damned if Shay did not know how to break it behind closed doors. Liam found himself eying him curiously, wondering if Haytham was the same in private as in public.

William found himself standing carefully, running a hand over his cropped hair. The father-son duo looked over at him, momentarily distracted from their pissing match.

“As much as I love to see a good fight between a Templar and one of the Brotherhood,” Liam started, crossing his arms loosely. “I want to sleep. We can decide in the morning if we continue this, or not.”

“We have to continue this,” Haytham said, not a hint of doubt in his voice. “We need to find Church, put an end to his treachery.”

Connor snorted and motioned towards Shay. “You have a Black Cross at your side now. What use would you have for us, Father?”

Father. That word was spit out as if it were a poison in Connor’s mouth. A bile that he was desperate to be rid of. But he would never be rid of it. They were blood, linked through and through. It was something that Connor would eventually have to swallow. And if Liam had any inkling of reading people like he believed he did, he knew that Haytham hoped that one day Connor would accept that he was the Templar’s son in more than just name. That was for the Assassin to figure out. Liam wanted nothing to do with that mess.

He glanced over at Shay and let out a breath. He had his own damn mess to deal with. Did Shay realize it was him? It was always dark when they met, always. And yet, Shay always seemed to know it was him. He was always so familiar, easy for him to touch, to reach. Liam looked away.

Not now.

Haytham looked to be biting his tongue to the point of bleeding when he said, “Having more is better. We have a better chance of finding Church and ending him.”

“More also means we have a bigger chance of being found out before we have a chance to get to Church.”

“Church already knows we are after him. We haunt him, and he is trying to circumvent the inevitable fate that his days are numbered.”

“We do not haunt him enough, then. Not enough to for him to stay hidden and stop his pursuits against the Continental Army.”

“We need to know his focus,” Shay said, interrupting potentially another bout between the pair. “Is he focusing on destroying the supply lines, or is he focusing on eliminating soldiers? We need to know more to plan further ahead.”

“I thought our primary goal was just to find out where Church is,” Liam said quietly, rubbing his chin.

“If we know what his goal is, we might have a better idea of where he is.”

“Either staying in a Loyalist town or hiding in the woods with his troops, one of the two,” Liam said, looking over at Shay. “And in either case, he could be eliminating soldiers and supply lines. The focus should be limiting where he is.”

Shay watched him, studying him almost. Liam forced himself to stay put as he looked down at him. The Irishman was calculating, and if he had not yet recognized Liam, he soon would. If Shay had recognized him, he was very good at keeping it hidden.

“It would be the supply lines,” Shay said. He blinked once and looked away from William, looking up at Haytham. “If Church was in the skirmish between the redcoats and the Patriots, he was not there to fight. If what you told me about Church is true, he is no soldier. A businessman, a surgeon perhaps, but not a soldier. He would not be able to undermine the Continental Army through force. He would use a different tactic.”

“You think he is destroying supply lines,” Haytham said, turning to face Shay. Connor stood there quietly, listening to the Black Cross’s proposition.

“Not destroying. I believe he is stealing them, taking them somewhere else. He would not waste perfectly good supplies, not when the British are struggling to maintain their own supplies when they are at war at sea with the French navy.”

“And how do you intend to find out where the supplies are? Where he is taking them? Where Church is?” Connor asked incredulously. Shay had managed to figure out Church quickly, almost too easily, where Connor and Haytham had struggled for weeks.

“Valley Forge is still the obvious answer,” Shay said, arching a brow as if to say, _were you listening at all?_ “If that is the last place he was seen, then that is where we go.”

“It would be two weeks wasted.” Connor moved away, making as if to start pacing on the far side of the fire.

“Do you have a better idea?” Haytham asked, his tone biting and short.

Connor stood for a moment, arms crossed, back to Haytham and Shay as he looked solely at Liam. They looked at each other, and then Liam looked down, bowing his head as he moved away, starting to unroll his pack, getting ready to bed down for the night. Connor sighed and ran a hand over his jaw, tugging at his braid in frustration. Yielding to his father felt wrong. It felt off and strange. To yield to his wishes, his notions, was unthinkable.

And yet, to get Church, what other choice did they have?

“We will not survive this intact,” Connor muttered, unsure if he meant that one of them would be killed by Church, or if they would kill each other. It was certain to Liam that he meant the latter.

Now the only undetermined ending would be which of the companions would be killing which one of the others.

Haytham sighed. “Connor, please. You need to grow up.”

Connor stiffened, his shoulders hiking up just slightly. A thousand memories flooded him at once, most prominent among them, watching his mother die in the fire that destroyed his village, his home. His heart had died in the fire along with his mother and his people. It was gone out of him, an empty hole remained. He thought of Achilles, and of the first time he had ever laid eyes on Haytham Kenway from that rooftop over a decade ago.

Those moments of running through the forest and learning to jump from tree to tree with his friends was a distant thought, a cloudy memory that was buried deep within the fog of his mind. He kept it buried and hidden. It ached, it hurt, worse than any burn from the flames that had consumed his village, devoured his mother. It hurt worse than the hand of Charles Lee around his throat when he was just a boy. And for some reason, it hurt him to hear Haytham say that. 

He had grown up, perhaps too quickly he had.

Liam glared a bit from the corner of his eye. He had known Connor a scant few weeks, and had rarely seen a moment of vulnerability in the Master Assassin, but even in that short time, he could tell that something was bothering him. It was rarely at the surface, sometimes bubbling just underneath. It was something real and raw and primal. Liam had seen it once, when they had taken on a group of redcoat scouts. Liam had been in awe of him. His tomahawk stained with blood, bodies strewn about him. Liam had been so distracted that he had not noticed a redcoat behind him. Not noticed until Connor pulled out his pistol and had shot it quickly, with frightening accuracy. A small spray of blood had hit the back of his hood as the scout had fallen.

Connor’s eyes had been cold, but there was something deeper there. His breath had been calm and even, despite the adrenaline that was surely coursing through him. It was always a rush, the fight, the kill, the spilling of blood. Yet, Connor did not seem at all affected. He had shoved his pistol back into his belt and looked away. He had killed with little emotion, and yet the gore on the ground, the blood on his face, made him look savage. A beautiful savage with ancient eyes.

Now, he just looked tired. Like he was older than the two decades he had seen of this life. Connor went to Liam then, rubbing his wrist. Liam grabbed Connor’s bed roll and started setting it up for him. The other assassin looked lost, looked gone. Sleep would help, Liam decided. It had to help. It always helped.


	4. Chapter Four

Haytham had woken up the Frenchman after a few hours of rest, tasking him with the next watch. Liam had blinked the sleep from his eyes and let out a yawn as Haytham walked to his own sleeping roll, not waiting for Liam’s response. Such was the command of a Templar Grand Master, Liam supposed as he got up, grabbing his cloak as he moved to sit by the fire with all the grace of an exhausted Assassin who wished for at least another three hours of sleep. That sleep, per Liam’s wishes, would have definitely been within four walls of some kind of shelter, not the open air of a forest.

The night was dark, the slight cold bracing for William as he learned to live through the soft wind before it became the hard freeze of winter in the New World. He kept his cloak wrapped around him, watching the stars as the wind started to die down. With the wind disappearing into the dark, the quiet of the woods were only ever disturbed by a soft crackle of the dwindling fire and the shifting of Liam poking at the embers with a long stick.

He could remember nights like this in France. Nights that were spent in the company of his family, the noblesse, the Brotherhood, often around the fireplaces of the manors that they occupied. His family had a manor just outside Paris, and his little sisters loved to sing by the fire at Yuletide. Liam’s mother always called them her little angels, and they sang their gentle chorus until the embers had dimmed so much that they could not see one another.

It was a great difference to be in the New World, the Thirteen Colonies, keeping watch by a dying fire with two Templars and a fellow darkling sleeping not fifteen meters away, was far from the cozy nights in the manor. The company left much to be desired as well.

He found himself staring after Shay on the far side of the fire. He was resting with his clothes still on, his bedroll being used as a pillow for his head. Liam guessed he was lucky enough that his guns had been removed from his person. It was still right next to the Black Cross, in easy reach in case of a surprise attack. He was not sleeping though. Oh, no. Liam knew that much from their scant few weeks together in France. He was still, an arm over his forehead, as if to block out some nonexistent light, and his breaths were even. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, but it was not with the ease of sleep. It was with the ease of someone who had been faking sleep for years.

Liam did not blame Shay, in his own way he understood where the Templar’s mind was. The Frenchman found it hard to breathe, let alone sleep, when he did not trust his surroundings. He thought that it might be unnatural for a Templar to be so unnerved by their surroundings. They were always so sure of themselves, sure of their surroundings, and the people around them. Did Templars get uncomfortable? Liam was certain they did, but perhaps they never talked about it. To admit to a vulnerability was something neither side did, not even in their dying breaths.

How long would it take Shay to come and sit by him? William found himself wondering that as he brought his cloak tighter around him, clasping it tightly with one hand while the other continued to use the stick in the fire. Shay was very good at hiding his emotions, even from Liam. The only emotion he had ever seen with Shay was pleasure, lust, but never anything else. His face was closed off, like a dam, with emotions flooding behind it but held fast by the thick stonework. He knew that Shay would come to sit with him.

The recognition between them was a thing beyond this world, and though he had not shown it to the Grand Master, Shay had to know it was Liam.

Another hour passed before Shay finally let out a deep sigh and moved his arm down to rest over his stomach. His eyes opened and they found Liam’s eyes across the fire. They stared at each other until Liam looked away, shifting a bit as he watched the embers with sudden interest. He could hear Shay moving around, and he sighed, biting the inside of his cheek. He would hardly be alone any more this night.

Liam moved a bit more as he heard the shuffling sound of Shay’s heavy coat coming closer to him. He could not look up to face him as he sat near him with a heavy breath.

“Why are you here?” Shay asked quietly.

Liam wanted to laugh at the stupidity of the question, licking his lips before he said tartly, “Am I not allowed to go where I please?”

“You know damn well that tha’ is not at all wha’ I meant.”

The Frenchman’s lips twitched. It was easier to tell when Shay was getting frustrated, or heated, in more ways than one. For Shay, his accent got thicker. A subtle Irish brogue tinted by years in the Colonies could quickly become a thick accent, harshly tainting the colonial lilt that had been honed over many years. In Liam’s defense, he had not been guessing. Shay had voluntarily told him that he had come from the Colonies, that he was not one of the Irish Geese that had come over to be at the service of the French monarchs.

“I was asked to come here by the mentors of the Parisian Brotherhood,” William explained quietly.

“Why? To try to save a floundering Assassin sect?”

William gave a self-depreciating chuckle. “In a way, I suppose. That was the main reason, but I suppose the other reason was penance.”

“Penance?”

“For laying with you.” Liam looked over at him, eyes dull. “Did you think they would not find out that I slept with Dorian’s killer? They are everywhere, and I am an idiot.”

Shay seemed to grit his teeth, one hand clenching on his right knee. Liam was not sure if it was over the fact that they had fucked, or if he had actually forgotten that the Brotherhood had eyes and ears everywhere. William hated to admit to himself, but he was sure it was the former. Templars were not stupid by nature, no matter how much Assassins wanted to hope that that was the case. They knew the world as it stood, with potential for hope or hell everywhere. They would not be foolish enough to believe that lying with one of the Brotherhood would not get back to the Mentors.

“Perhaps you are an idiot, then,” Shay said quietly, glancing over at his former lover briefly.

“That has been well established, Cormac,” Liam said in return, his voice tart and short. “As evidenced by our past history.”

“If you are an idiot for comin’ ta bed with me, then I must be an idiot in turn for beddin’ you.”

“We fucked, Shay.” Liam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We fucked, and that’s that. I was an idiot for trusting you. You must have felt like a fox in the hen house.”

“I did no’ know you were one of tha’ Brotherhood!” It came out hissing from his throat, almost a defense, but not quite. “Had I known – “

“Had you known that I was an Assassin, what would you have done then, Shay?”

Liam was struggling to keep his voice quiet, to keep the tone low and to keep himself calm. His temper was something he prided himself on keeping in check. It did not do an Assassin well to have a red-hot temper, or any sort of temper. Having lax control over your emotions was a downfall in the eyes of the Mentors, and it was a liability in the field. A rash decision in a fit of rage could get an innocent killed.

Shay stared at him silently, and Liam found himself staring back. Neither of them really knew how to answer that question. It had been a short affair, nary two months since Shay had first approached William in the market that day. Maybe he had been a fool for not being more wary of a strange man propositioning him in broad daylight in a crowded Parisian market square. It did not matter after that night. All William knew was that he had delighted in the feel of the other man’s hands on his hips, the cold of a thick metal band digging into his skin. The world outside faded in that time.

The answer to the question he posed to Shay, in Liam’s mind, was simple: Shay would have done nothing different. As long as Liam did not realize that Shay was a Templar, it did not matter that Liam was an Assassin.

“It does not matter anymore what happened,” the Frenchman said quietly, trying to convince both himself and the Templar in one breath. “What’s done is done, and we need to focus on finding Church and ending him.”

Shay took a deep breath, rubbing a hand over his eyes for a moment. “How can you be so focused, Liam? Father of Understanding, how does this not bother you?”

“How do you know it doesn’t bother me?”

“You coulda fooled me.”

“Just because I know how to keep my emotions in check does not mean that it does not bother me. What did you expect? For me to fall into your arms and weep and thank whatever higher power that would listen that my long-lost lover, who killed a respected Mentor in my Brotherhood, was back to save me?”

“I never expected any of tha’,” Shay muttered, his voice low as he leaned towards Liam, a silent reminder to keep his voice down. “Do no’ put words in my mouth, William.”

The Frenchman scoffed a bit, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck for a moment before he opened his mouth to speak again.

“This cannot effect our work, Cormac. Church needs to die, and I do not need an ex-lover to stop me from getting it done.”

“Same goes fo’ me, Liam. Same goes fo’ me.”

Liam clenched his hands and nodded once, staring intently at the ground as he struggled not to lash out. Was that it? Was that all? Liam knew that it was supposed to be, that it had to be. Attachments, romantic, sexual, or otherwise, could be dangerous. Lethal, even. That was not to say that having an attachment to a Templar was more dangerous than other attachments, but it sure as hell felt like it.

Liam chanced a look over at Connor’s sleeping form and found himself wondering if Connor faced the same confusion with his own father. A Grand Master Templar as a paternal authority, though Connor would never admit that the man had any authority over him as he had given that up long ago when Connor’s mother had sent Haytham Kenway away. Liam found himself wondering what was worse: to have a Templar as a father or as a lover? He shook his head and wondering if there was truly a right answer to that question.

Both options seemed to suck any way you thought about it.

Shay seemed to sigh and Liam could almost sense his hesitation as he felt the other man’s fingers brush against his own. Liam glanced over at him and then looked away quickly. It hurt to look at him still.

“It will no’ affect us, Liam,” Shay said, a half-promise. He moved his fingers away and turned to look at the dead fire pit. “We canna’ let it.”

Liam let out a breath, blowing it out from deep within him as he scratched his forearm absently. “It won’t. I…I will not let it move me from my position.”

“Does tha’ mean…” Shay shook his head a little bit, pushing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. “Do you regret wha’ happened then?”

“What happened? I can’t seem to remember now.” It was a lie, bold-faced and utter bullshit. And yet, it had left Liam’s lips easily enough. It had come easy, but both men felt the sting of the words, the denial.

Shay’s lips were pressed together in a thin line, his scar standing out harshly in the pale light of the moon now that the fire had finally died. Liam turned a bit and moved a few more sticks into the ashes. He grabbed a couple pieces of flint from his little pack by his side and shuffled forward, moving to strike the two against in each other to try to produce a spark. Shay reached out and grabbed his wrist roughly. Liam flinched and pulled back sharply, his wrist still held in the Templar’s tight grip.

“Let go,” Liam said, his voice a touch weaker than he would have liked. His fingers were holding onto that flint like it was the only thing keeping him sane at that moment.

“Go sleep,” Shay said, sounding exhausted, like that conversation took so much out of him, knocked the wind out of his sails. “Go sleep now, William. It’s my turn ta be on watch.”

Liam pulled his wrist out of Shay’s grasp roughly and struck the two pieces of flint against each other repeatedly until a spark was made, igniting a small fire in the mix of ashes and new sticks. Liam allowed himself a small smile and added a couple more twigs to make the fire a little bit bigger. He did not say anything to the Black Cross for a moment, scratching the back of his neck absently before he finally spoke.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Liam said, sounding for all the world like a petulant child. In a darker tone, he muttered, “Not anymore.”

Shay glared at him. “For god’s sake, ya need more sleep. We do no’ need you fallin’ off yer horse tomorrow.”

“Have you ever seen me fall off a horse before, Cormac?”

“Canna say that I av’, but I av’ seen you fall off somethin’ before.” That statement was accompanied by a look that was somewhere between lust-filled and comedic.

Liam stared, blushing a pretty pink color. He pursed his lips. “I am not sure if you are referring to that time you saw me drunk and fall off a balcony into a bush, or if you are referring to the time I fell off your –“

Shay shushed him urgently, looking back at the sleeping Grand Master. “You do no’ have to say it ou’ loud.”

Liam arched a brow, resting his chin in his right hand. “Are you saying the infamous Grand Master does not know that you are a sodomite?”

“No, he does no’. It’s no’ his damned business.”

“Ah, but like the Assassins, Shay, the Templars also have eyes and ears everywhere. They know everything.”

Shay looked a bit perturbed by that and seemed to hesitate for a moment. Liam sighed again and shook his head. Their companionship was a strange one, and when he thought that, he was not sure if he meant Shay and Haytham, or Shay and himself. Either one was probably strange.

“Look, Shay,” Liam said, looking at his former lover. “Nothing truly happened. It was a few weeks of fun for both of us, and that is it. I can’t…I don’t know if we could…after what happened with Dorian.”

“I am no’ askin’ for your forgiveness. But was it really nothin’ for you?”

Liam did not answer, instead standing and brushing off his legs as he moved to go back to his bed roll. He needed sleep now, and he could not afford to lie to Shay. He heard Shay curse quietly behind him, and he tried not to smile a bit. He bedded down next to Connor and frowned a bit at the soft snore that left the Master Assassin. He sighed for the tenth time in the past half hour and grumbled a bit. This was why he preferred to fall asleep first.


End file.
